


Interrobang

by innie



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage - Neckties, Competence Kink, Dirty Talk, Harry's first mission, Honeypot, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Silly Spy Gadgets, Undercover, Voice Kink, Wall Sex, everybody has hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2019-12-27 02:27:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18294983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/innie/pseuds/innie
Summary: Things had taken rather a turn, and he was trying very hard to believe that his first mission was not also going to be his last.  Wouldn'tthatjust be awful and make the past year of jockeying to become Galahad an utter waste.  An utter,sexlesswaste.





	Interrobang

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deepdarkwaters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/gifts).



> The infallible internet assures me that "kincsem" is Hungarian for [dearest, sweetheart, darling (a term of endearment for a beloved person)](https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/kincsem#Hungarian) but I do not speak Hungarian myself, so I'm taking that on faith.
> 
> This one was fun to write . . . until I painted myself into a corner. Fortunately, Harry Hart has no shame and disregards dignity and was thus able to save the day. (Also, his libido just does not quit.)

Harry'd been quite looking forward to getting his dick wet – seducing a sweet young princeling and swapping out his pendant for the Kingsman replica – and then going his merry way.

Things had taken rather a turn, and he was trying very hard to believe that his first mission was not also going to be his last. Wouldn't _that_ just be awful and make the past year of jockeying to become Galahad an utter waste. An utter, _sexless_ waste.

Not that it was really his mission. He'd got a very formal-looking folder with several heavily redacted pages – all he could see was that Merlin had put together the entire packet, that the mission belonged to Kay, and that he was being looped in because it was vital that relieving the prince of his pendant happened at the same time that Kay would be otherwise occupied with a more pressing portion of the proceedings; it was urgent enough that Kingsman were waiving their standard procedure of pairing every new Round Table agent with a veteran for the first few missions. Harry hadn't even met Kay or Merlin yet, and wondered which of them had brought him into the team. He couldn't bear to think of them, of all the agents from Arthur on down, shaking their heads at the knight who hadn't even had the wherewithal to complete a single mission.

(Despite the turn that events had taken, he couldn't help recalling his thoughts from earlier in the evening, as he'd dressed so carefully for the embassy gathering. Would they expect him to tumble the prince for his prize – most likely not, as there'd been nothing in the dossier regarding the prince's sexual preferences, and Kingsman must have more class than to act as a pimp – or be light-fingered in some other context? Once he'd arrived and spotted the mark, a new thought troubled him: surely they didn't mean for him to _injure_ the man, not when he looked so sweetly shy – younger than Harry, too young to have much confidence in his ability to fill such a public role – and spoke heavily accented English with such bashful determination?)

He'd admit to himself, even if to no one else: he _liked_ the look of the prince from the crown of his dark head to the tips of his polished brogues. He'd been dying to kiss and fondle and fuck and then walk off with the prize and a little something extra, and now he was stuck wondering if Kingsman would even know where to find him.

All he could really ascertain was that he was blindfolded and bound, but not gagged, so his captors mustn't be concerned about whatever noise he could make. He hummed, low, to confirm acoustically that his chair was not within tipping distance of any walls. The room was pleasantly warm, the chair was wooden, and he was still wearing his clothes, though his glasses, watch, signet ring, and shoes had all gone missing. He rocked a bit, trying to determine whether the chair was discouragingly sturdy or likely to splinter to helpful bits when smashed against the floor, and for the first time heard something other than his own exhalations.

There was a voice, clearly piped in and not coming from someone he could reach out and touch (were his hands unbound and not each clasped around the opposite forearm behind the chair's slatted back), and that was a pity, because that voice made him _want_ to touch, rather desperately. A thick Scottish accent overlaid all the rumbled words like butter, and Harry was too susceptible to that particular sound to even remember that the voice must belong to one of his captors and he ought to be paying attention to the sentences it spun out into his appreciative ears. Really, if he got out of this sticky spot, he was going to make sure he fucked someone – or several someones, a whole bloody parade of someones – at least thrice a week, because this libidinous yearning was severely hindering his escape-planning skills.

 _Ah, the wee spy wakes,_ he heard. _What clever jewellery you have, wee spy!_ Harry felt certain he ought to be offended by the characterisation, but that voice was positively caressing every syllable as if to cater to his randiness and his adrenaline was overcoming whatever he'd been dosed with, leaving him humming like a live wire. _How naughty were you going to be with all of this gear, wee spy?_

Harry shook his head to clear it, but it must have read to his captors – they had to have cameras trained on him – as stubbornness. _Perhaps your partner will have more to say?_ the voice suggested silkily, and he went cold as he caught the implication, picturing the prince's luxuriously fringed eyes going wide with pain. _It's no use pretending you don't know the lanky streak of piss, you were eyeing him up all night._ So they had had cameras at the embassy as well – who _were_ they, and how long could he possibly last against them? _Still not talking? Well, he might have a word or two to whisper in my ear when I'm through with him._

At that, Harry's throat suddenly unlocked. "He's not – he's not my partner! I'm not a spy! I was eyeing him up to see if he'd be willing to come back to mine."

_Oh-ho, valiant effort, my heroic lad! I suppose you'd like me to believe that it was Eton rather than an espionage agency that gave you that signet ring that could stop a charging rhinoceros and that wristwatch with all those cheeky darts. Try again, wee spy._

Not a word about the glasses or the shoes? It felt foolish to hope, but he did nevertheless, that their enhancements had not been discovered. And that _me_ was clearly singular, not the _us_ he'd expected. Mind racing, he kept his mouth going. "London's so dangerous these days. What I carry for my personal protection is well-warranted, I assure you."

There was a pause – a silence that Harry filled by imagining all sorts of horrors being visited on the poor princeling's long, slim body – and then the voice returned. _You braved those filthy streets in the dangerous city for a shag?_ That _was your plan?_

The mockery made him snap. "An _epic_ shag." It would have been, too. He was labouring under no delusions regarding his prowess – what else had uni been for, if not to practise diligently? – and would have left the prince with a Kingsman replica of his pendant, a body covered in kisses, and a well-earned ache in his arse.

 _Hmm. I'm almost tempted to give him back to you, just to see what the_ English _consider a proper shag._ Harry sat up as straight as his bonds would allow and tried to slow his racing heart. If he could get his hands on the prince and make the trade, completing his mission, he could face whatever came next. And if their captor really were working alone, surely they could band together and overpower him? _Were you trained by your masters to fuck, wee spy?_

He could feel himself flush hot – at the implication, _not_ at the thought of a Kingsman orgy, or of finally touching the prince, or of being observed by the possessor of that singularly seductive voice. As long as the replacement pendant was still in the hiding place he'd devised, he could do Kingsman proud. For the first time, he wondered which pendant was the crucial one: was it the original that housed some sort of data or could be used as a passcode in a meeting of masked men, or was it the replica that concealed a bug or perhaps a tracking device? If the latter, it must already be on, and his rescue might well be imminent. He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious, but he was supposed to report back to HQ first thing in the morning.

He would stall for time, and he could think of no more enjoyable way to do it than to resume the evening's plan and seduce the prince. "I'd no need of any training," he said, playing along as if his captivity were merely an amusing divertissement; if surviving and getting out of here with the prince similarly safe and sound depended on keeping the mood light, he could do that. "I _would_ need to be liberated from these bonds, however, if you'd like to see my best work."

The low laughter he heard _dragged_ up his spine like a cat's rough tongue, and he was getting hard. His brain was evidently wired wrong; perhaps that was what Kingsman had sought: capable men whose reactions to danger would be debilitating in any other line of work.

 _Your skinny plaything can untie you if he wishes,_ that damned voice purred, and then he heard the sound of a door opening and felt a rush of cooler air against his hot face. Lord, he must look pink-cheeked as a schoolboy, not remotely plausible as a spy who served Queen and country. He was almost glad he couldn't see what his hair looked like at that moment.

"H- Hallo?" he heard and then the blindfold was tugged from his eyes and left in a loose loop around his neck, which was fitting because it was his own tie. The prince's concerned face filled his vision and he could see at last that those lustrous eyes were green as the heart of a forest. "Are you quite all right?" The soft accent that made a melody of plain English was irresistible, and the heat of the prince's body only catalysed his mounting arousal.

"Could you set me loose?" Harry asked, with what he hoped was a winning smile.

It didn't seem to work. The prince cast a doubtful gaze over his own shoulder – though Harry craned his neck, he could see no visible door, which meant that they were enclosed in a space that could be opened only from the outside – and said, hesitantly, "It is not clear to me that I should do this thing. What is 'fuck'?"

 _Fuck_ was hardly onomatopoeic, but the word made him strain against his bonds, knowing the prince had heard so much whilst comprehending only a fraction. "Let me show you," he requested. "Come closer?"

Visibly relieved that Harry was still tied to the chair, the prince slowly inched nearer and, at Harry's nod, bent down. Harry tilted his face up and parted his lips, inviting rather than overpowering the man, and surprise flashed across the prince's intelligent face. Their lips met gently and Harry deliberately counted off seven seconds before tracing the prince's delicious lower lip with his tongue, congratulating himself on enacting his plan even when all odds were against him.

He suddenly had a lapful of royalty ravishing his mouth in return, and his cock did its best to rise despite the hand-stitched perfection of his well-fitted trousers. His arms ached to snap the ropes and circle the man doing his utmost to devour him.

"Your Highness," he said as clearly as he could when a multitude of smaller kisses were pressed to his lips. "Untie me, please."

"And we . . . fuck?" Harry had been turned on by the reverberating growl of his captor's voice, but the prince's tone, both hesitant and ardent, ratcheted his response up several notches.

"Yes. Yes?"

"Yes," the prince said, nodding to signify agreement with himself, which Harry found so charming he couldn't help kissing him again, though he needed to clear his head. He'd been planning on taking the prince, but that was when he'd factored in a bed and several uninterrupted, unobserved hours. Surely it would be easier to get his arms around the man's neck to swap out the pendants if he were on the receiving end of things, if he just lay back and let the prince labour above him? He'd never in his life been the one taken, but now it was essential.

It was unclear how the prince expected things to go, but Harry had to give the man credit: while he'd been figuring out logistics, the prince had untied all of his bonds and gathered Harry's face in his hands for another kiss of such enthusiasm that Harry would be as good as dental records in identifying him by his crooked teeth alone. Harry disguised as a relieved stretch his fingers' slipping along the waistband of his trousers to find the braces buttons sewn inside and then, palming the replacement pendant that he'd concealed inside one of those buttons, reached up gratefully to loop his arms around the prince's neck.

He was hugged, then, so firmly that he was locked into the prince's body, and it felt so good that he wanted to offer the same; he tightened his arms and felt the prince's lips at his ear. "Ah, kincsem," the prince breathed before biting at the earlobe, and Harry froze, thinking he'd said _Kingsman_. That couldn't be it, of course, not when the man was continuing to pepper his cheek and throat with kisses; it must be some Hungarian word that belonged in the bedroom. Harry wished that Merlin would invent some device that could translate from any language into English, though if he made it back to HQ in one piece, he fully expected to be told Merlin had implemented such functionality into the glasses ages ago.

"Your Highness," he murmured, suddenly remembering that he was supposed to be entertaining their captor, and what the consequences might be for failing to deliver a proper show, "let me." He began unbuttoning the military-style jacket, belted over tight trousers that made the royal legs look endless. Rows of medals winked at him, and Harry bemoaned that he didn't know if his mission's success depended on the Kingsman pendant's being planted on the prince or the original pendant's being brought back to HQ; if the former, he could have stuck the Kingsman-manufactured disc into the gleaming gold coins and ribbons on the man's impressive chest, been done with it, and fucked with a clear conscience.

He should have swapped the pendants as soon as he had the man fully naked, but he was struck dumb and still by the sight of him. All his life, he'd dressed with care, knowing that the right suit – particularly a military uniform – could hide all manner of sins, but whatever the prince's sins were, they were not apparent on his body. Harry had never before met a man who looked better fully bared than with a tailor's expertise concealing some imperfections, and he was more than pleased to do so now.

The prince smiled at him, shy again, and reached for him. Harry closed his fist to keep hold of the second pendant and let his clothes be pulled free. The prince was unhurried and thorough, murmuring words Harry couldn't catch as he bared Harry's body, and Harry blushed anew at his own milk-whiteness, implying a virginity he hadn't owned in ages. At least his cock was as hard and red as the prince's, though that was about where the comparisons ended; the royal member – he cursed himself for the phrase, knowing it would be stuck now in his head forever – was long and thick and prettily curved, and suddenly he was ravenous for it, to sit upon it and feel it opening him up and ploughing into him with a tender ruthlessness.

He'd stood to allow himself to be divested of his trousers and pants, and he looked at the featureless room: blank walls and ceiling of institutional grey, no windows or visible doors, a thin layer of carpeting upon the floor. The prince was by far the most decorative element, and Harry clasped their hands together and led him toward the wall that he guessed concealed the door. He was kissed as he walked backwards, his hands keeping this world-class specimen of a man close; when he could feel the coolness of the wall at his back, he stopped walking and the prince's expectations became clear: it was Harry with his back to the wall, Harry who was going to be held aloft and fucked.

He had no complaints.

Particularly not when the prince began fellating his own fingers and Harry was free to kiss along the long column of the royal throat. There was no scent other than that of the prince's smooth skin, the flesh having been hidden by the high collars of his military tunic and jacket, and it was a smell of the everyday, a fragrance Harry could imagine in his bed at any hour instead of heralding one specific fuck in extraordinary circumstances. He didn't even realise that the sensation of that throat working under his greedy mouth was causing his hips to rock forward until the prince's other hand clutched their pricks together, the rough palm and velvety flesh circling him enough to make him lose his mind. He whimpered into the man's throat and turned his face so that his brow rested against the strong line between neck and shoulder.

"Up, kincsem," the prince said, and hoisted him _with one bloody arm_ and Harry felt wet fingers circling his hole. Legs wrapped firmly around the prince's muscular middle, he engaged in a campaign of kissing that he hoped would keep the prince from noticing that the thin golden disc of his pendant, shining like the sun, was no longer resting between shapely clavicles but was being pulled off and replaced and the chain reclasped. Harry felt strongly he should be granted some special award for carrying out this phase of his mission whilst those long fingers were teasing him to the point of madness. Holding the original pendant up for inspection behind the man's head, he was suddenly uncertain as to whether he'd actually done it – it did seem unlikely that in a moment so fraught with interest he'd been smooth and skilful enough to effect the switch, and of course the bloody pendants were identical.

He almost wanted that purring voice that had been so sharp-eyed before to confirm that he'd swapped the pendants, but of course their captor wasn't supposed to realise that he was still moving forward with his mission and that he planned to escape. Knowing the engraved disc he held would slip out of his sweaty grasp sooner or later, he launched it toward the little heap of his clothes and made a mental note that he needed to find it before redressing.

He wrapped his arms around the prince's neck, and those luminous eyes, more black than green now, were tracing his face with such adoration that he wanted to hide away and also let them persist in finding him. How long had it been for the prince since he'd had someone in his arms? His _rippling_ arms, Harry corrected himself giddily when the maddening fingers inside him ceased their wicked work and that hand grabbed his bottom, still wobbly despite all of his rigorous calisthenics.

Then he knew his hour had come upon him and he held his breath as he was penetrated. Oh, the stretch of it was so much – punching breath out of him as the water test had, splaying him open as the parachute test had – and he reacted instinctively, rocking close to the steady heat of the prince's body and curling his limbs tightly around him. A warm hand stroked endless lines up and down his spine and the prince was murmuring into his ear, "Kincsem, I did not know. I promise you."

Harry heard the kindness in the voice and clung closer. That was a mistake; without the wall at his back to brace against, he was wholly in the prince's arms and there was nothing to stop gravity from exerting its pull. He kept sinking down on the thick molten length and he gasped when the royal bollocks at last tickled his bum. They were still for a long moment.

He opened his eyes and, as if that were the cue he was waiting for, the prince slammed him into the wall and began to thrust. The man's musculature was unreal, all lithe and effective and now outlined in sweat, and Harry was transfixed by the sight of his own cock – still mostly hard – rubbing in sharp little jerks against the corrugated abdominal muscles the prince had for some unfathomable reason kept hidden away. There was . . . it was . . . he was _alight_ , burning from the inside with friction and pleasure and work – how had he never known that the one being penetrated had so much power? – and he twisted just a little for the small but significant rapture of being put right by the prince's inexorable cock.

Oh, this man could fuck him for days. He hummed his delight and the prince bit at his mouth, his throat, rough little nips that sharpened the sweetness of his fluidly rolling hips.

His hands were twining in the prince's inky hair and his throat was pouring out every moan he'd ever wanted to make and his legs were trembling from being spread open for so long and then, before he knew where exactly the edge was, he tipped over it, coming so hard his toes actually curled with the force of it.

The prince cradled him, letting him pant his utter satisfaction into that dark hairline. When Harry at last stopped clinging, the prince tried to lift him off his cock, but Harry, lengthening his spine to its fullest extent, looked down at him from that lofty height and said, "Finish, Your Highness," as grandly as if there were not a thorough mess covering glorious royal muscles. Then he ducked his head and kissed him, mouth gentle even as the prince laboured like a man climbing an infinite staircase, delirium increasing with each step.

He felt that soft mouth tremble under his when at last the prince came to his glory and the hot rush of spunk filled him up. The prince kept him pinned, still kissing him, and at long last disengaged gently. A line of come was painted on Harry's thigh and he touched it, strangely gratified by the mark. He had to save this man.

Stepping forward again, he pulled the prince into another kiss, revelling unabashedly in the sensation of those big hands threaded into his hair. He dragged his mouth away and pressed it to the perfect cheekbone in front of him, smearing it along the length and getting his lips near that pale ear. "Can you remember how the door opened?" he breathed quietly. "Did you get a look at who took us?"

The prince jerked back and Harry saw something shatter in his eyes, a mighty man laid somehow low. "Oh, kincsem," he said, soft but still melodious. "Kingsman." That word was bit out in a crisp English accent. "Harry Hart," he said, in that Scottish accent that had weakened Harry's knees. "No one took us. We're in HQ."

His heart was racing, as much from the revelations as from the man's broad hand, still cupping his bare hip. "HQ?" he asked as if he'd never heard the term.

"Stand down, Galahad. I'm Merlin. You did very well in salvaging your part of this supposed mission." Merlin stepped back then, and Harry felt cold, no longer sheltered by the heat of that clever body.

 _Supposed._ So all of it had been a sham, and really, he ought to have seen that in the care with which he'd been bound, the comfort of waking with his clothes still on him and a clear head, the teasing in that disembodied voice. Only . . . he wanted his body still to be tucked against Merlin's, as if there had been no betrayal.

While it was possible he'd simply been fucked so well he'd gone compliant, there was, honestly, absolutely no precedent for that – he was trouble, through and through, and unlikely to fold even when the world shifted around him. Every instinct told him he had not been shamed, and he'd learned to listen to them; they'd got him through his Galahad trials and they could pull him through this minefield.

"No one took us, but someone took me," he said, watching for the reaction. Merlin met his eyes unflinchingly, but Harry could see tension in the set of his naked shoulders. "You."

"Yes."

"Why?" Surely that was not a service – all insinuations about Kingsman orgies aside – that Merlin or a senior knight provided to new agents?

Merlin looked deeply unhappy that he had let things go so far. "You said that was how you were planning to carry out the exchange, and I needed to see how successful you could be with a mark on his guard against you."

"And that I was entirely successful?" Harry asked.

Those thick dark eyebrows shot up. "How so?"

"When we were first against the wall," Harry said, gesturing but not bothering to blush; Merlin was going pink enough for both of them. "Your original is over there, probably in my pants or thereabouts."

Long fingers came up to press the replacement pendant against a chest dusted with soft black hair. "I didn't see the new one on you when I put you in that chair."

Harry grinned and Merlin forgot himself so far as to grin back. "That must be my own secret, then." Merlin shot him a dark look and Harry's breath caught, pushing him into impudence. "Or, I'll trade you for it. I was thinking I ought to get some sort of reward for managing to make the switch even when I was so pleasurably engaged."

"Were you?" Merlin asked forbiddingly, but Harry was too emboldened by those flashes of humour to be intimidated by the man whose voice and touch had each sent him reeling. Merlin stepped back, located his own pants and pulled them on, and then lifted each piece of Harry's clothing until the pendant fell from one of them. "Fair play," he said, looking at the gold disc shining on the dark carpet. "What would you like?"

"You," Harry said, pulling him close by the waistband of his pants to get him back into kissing distance. "All of you, from the crown of this clever head to those long toes, from your brain to your voice. Not forgetting, of course, this majestic cock, Your Highness."

Merlin growled and kissed him, moving forward with such determination that Harry's back was against the wall before he knew it. "Kincsem," Harry said, knowing it had to mean something good.

Merlin dropped to his knees and Harry amended that to _very good indeed_.


End file.
